


anywhere with you is home

by sky_blue_hightops



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Beating, Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider/Rapunzel Fluff, F/M, Hurt Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Whump, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:53:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26245216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_blue_hightops/pseuds/sky_blue_hightops
Summary: The check to his shoulder catches him completely off guard.It’s not enough to unbalance him, but Eugene lets the momentum carry him forwards and shifts his feet just as - the associated elbow strikes upwards,hard, cracking against the bottom of his jaw and making his head spin. Iron fills his mouth as he raises his arms to block his face, then staggers at the blow to his chest.
Relationships: Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider/Rapunzel
Comments: 8
Kudos: 104





	anywhere with you is home

**Author's Note:**

> it's literally just eugene whump and then new dream comfort . B)
> 
> (no varian?? you say, _from you??_  
>  yeah, i say, shrugging, equally as baffled. _feels weird_ )
> 
> anyways im soft for them. thx

The check to his shoulder catches him completely off guard.

It’s not enough to unbalance him, but Eugene lets the momentum carry him forwards and shifts his feet just as - the associated elbow strikes upwards, _hard_ , cracking against the bottom of his jaw and making his head spin. Iron fills his mouth as he raises his arms to block his face, then staggers at the blow to his chest.

The air leaving his lungs in a rush is _disorienting_. He forgets which way is up for a second - forgets where he was going (home), what he was doing (just _walking_ ) - and tries to track the three or four men that have descended on him, clearly intent on violence. A clip to his ribs sends him reeling straight into a punch to the side of his head and he sees black for one terrifying heartbeat. Muffled voices, deep and beyond his recognition, shout at him. He opens his mouth to ask, to explain, to defend himself, but his tongue is numb and blood spills out.

“-you _thief_ -” he makes out, the sound growled and vengeful, “- _dare_ you show your face here again-” He wonders if this counts as ‘showing his face’ when he can’t even seem to feel it past the pain radiating from his jaw. Eugene shakes his head, and spits more red, stepping backwards with a hand clutched desperately to his ribs.

“You’ve got-” But he doesn’t get a chance to finish. A hand snags his shoulder and _pulls_ at the same time someone kicks out his knee.

That leg collapses under him. Eugene groans and then it’s muffled into the cobblestones under his face, and his hand is stuck between his chest and the ground, and when he blinks the world comes away fuzzy and dim. Words are impossible - he opens his mouth again and almost chokes on the metallic taste, coughing up a small puddle into the grooves of the street. “Serves you right,” swims from the mess above him. “ _Rotten_ -”

The first kick bruises something in his gut. He curls protectively forwards, bracing his head in his arms and whining low in his throat, but the nonverbal plea goes unanswered. There’s a pause - he _hates_ it, hates the feeling of anticipation, hates the way it makes him hold the breath he still hasn’t fully regained - before. _Oh_. Yes. There’s more than one attacking him. They seem to remember at the same time as he does, because the single kick turns into a rush he can’t process. He can’t fight or struggle, not like this. The only thing Eugene can do is make himself as small as possible and span his fingers as wide as he can over the top and back of his head.

The next few blows rain aggressive and hard. They crack against his ribs, leave bootprints on the softer skin of his arms, and he blinks back tears at the white flash of pain sparked by one particular kick to his back. His arms aren’t enough to shield everything - he grips his own hair, every muscle in his body tensed, face pressed to the inside of his forearm, sleeve going damp around his eyes - and he feels the assault on anything not covered. His chest, his back, legs, stomach - even the back of his neck earns itself a few especially rough hits, and he almost blacks out entirely from those alone.

He can’t move - if he did, if he _could_ , it might give them something new to target, but even twitching the muscles in his arms and shoulders burns a fire under his skin that settles in his bones and joints. He can barely breathe, sucking in air between blows and exhaling it….with small noises, he’s ashamed to realize ( _he used to be strong enough to take this kind of thing in silence_ ) _-_ but he can’t help the stuttered breaths, the whimpers, and when a boot lands hard enough to make something in his chest _crunch_ , a loud yelp.

It’s not over for a while _._

He stops paying attention after the boot to his head that catches his fingers, snapping something he _does not_ want to think about. He stops paying attention after a kick to his spine that sends pain up his neck and down all the way to the tips of his fingers. He stops paying attention after the boot that grinds his ankle into the stones, the one that glances off his elbow, the one that digs into his hip. It’s easy to drift a little bit. His body doesn’t feel like his. He knows how to distance in moments like this.

So when it finally stops, he doesn’t believe it. He _can’t_. What if they’re still there? What if they’re waiting for him to slip up, let his guard down, trust that they aren’t there anymore, and uncurl? He lays on the ground, frozen for four very long - far too long - minutes. He counts out the seconds, feels them fade and die in the space between his own shaking breaths. His heart beats fast for the first few, then settles to something calmer. The blood rush in his ears quiets.

When he blinks his eyes open and peels his face away from the inside of his arm, the moon shines bright overhead. Yeah, that’s right - he’d been walking back to the castle after dark. Foolish, even in a relatively safe city like Corona, but he hadn’t had a choice. His mind flashes to Rapunzel, probably waiting, definitely wondering where he is, and it’s almost enough to get him off the ground. _Almost_ because the second he tenses his muscles, moves to gather himself up, every inch erupts into bursts of pain that blend together until it’s one steady thrum. He breathes a ragged gasp, bites down on the fabric of his jacket sleeve, and squeezes his eyes shut. It takes another half-minute for it to pass. He stubbornly does _not_ pass out again.

He loses time. One moment he’s breathing into the cobblestones, warm air muddling with warm blood, and the next he’s swaying on his knees, arm wrapped carefully around his chest and the other dangling uselessly. He stretches and curls those fingers, hesitant, testing, and their bones shift. The grinding action makes him waver on his knees - he falls forwards-

Eugene blinks awake again. The blood on his lips has gone cold; it’s not fresh, he realizes, and rolls so he isn’t face-first in his own old, coughed-up blood. The moon shines above, the only point of light, and he takes a second to just _breathe_. So - moving sucks. And judging by the shift of his ribs, something he doesn’t dwell on, breathing sucks. Focusing his eyes even sucks.

In short, tonight sucks.

Suddenly, almost dizzyingly, he wants Rapunzel. He wants her to hold him and put his pieces together and take him home. Eugene wants to be _safe_.

He whispers her name. No one comes. No hands brush his face, besides his own bloody ones. No words reach his ears, besides his own muttered wishes. No light steps into his vision, besides the stars flickering in the night. The solitude makes it even harder to pull himself back to his knees, but he does it. He doesn’t process how. He grips the stones, gets his feet under him. His ribcage protests the motion - well, everything does, including himself, but that’s neither here nor there - and he ignores it.

When he finally stands, it’s under the loosest possible definition of _standing_. He hunches over, hand splayed against the side of his chest, and it feels unsettlingly like he’s holding his bones in place. His heartbeat has picked up again, roaring loud and quick behind his eyes and in his ears, and he brings a shaking hand up to hold his head before remembering why he deliberately wasn’t thinking about that hand. It takes a few very careful, very measured breaths to keep him on his feet.

The first step is made difficult by the vertigo he can’t shake. He overestimates and places his foot too far away, shifts his balance too early, and almost loses it all again before catching himself against the corner of the nearest building with his free hand.

Big mistake.

He digs his nails into his side and grits his teeth against the fire that licks up his wrist and forearm so intensely it almost doesn’t hurt at all. Eugene thinks the nausea might be from shock, until his eyes land on the red lines raised across where the breaks would be, striping the unbroken skin of his fingers and showing as a dull rust in the dark, and he swallows down the churning of his stomach. It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s not _that_ far from the castle. It’s just-...far more than one step.

He thinks of his bed. He thinks of fireplaces and blankets. Bandages. Clean clothes. Green eyes, warm comfort.

He takes another step.

* * *

Eugene isn’t back from the city proper yet. Rapunzel exhales slowly, shifting in her chair, before huffing out the rest of the breath and dropping her quill onto the parchment.

It isn’t like him to be late, let alone _this_ late. Not to come back to the castle, to come back to her. She can always count on him to be there when she turns, hovering at her elbow with a smile or poking his head around the corner to wave. Her evening is dimmer for a lack of him - and she can’t help but worry.

It’s her worry that clues her into his odd movements when he finally does return.

“Eugene?” Her voice is soft in the hallway. He looks up from the smaller side door he’d snuck in through, carefully twisting the knob with his left elbow pressed firmly into his side. “What happened?”

He grins, the picture of mundane mediocrity except for the shadows that cut under his eyes and - is that blood? - the red staining the corner of his mouth. “Nothin’ much, sunshine,” he replies, and underneath his confidence, his voice rasps. “Just took a detour to admire the city at night. You know how it is - the finest of architecture under the most natural, sweet lighting in the world. I couldn’t resist.”

It’s a blatant mistruth but she doesn’t push, only because he looks so _tired_ but otherwise fine. When Eugene steps forwards, falling into his stride with her as they head back for their room, he walks oddly - a bit of a limp. Rapunzel winces in sympathy; if he’d ridden Max far enough to be limping, she can’t even think how exhausted poor Max must be. And while she knows Eugene, trusts he took care of the horse before returning, she’ll probably still visit tomorrow with a few apples. Just in case. And when she loops her arm in his, it’s to steady him. Just in case.

He jolts away. She startles, caught off guard. “...are you okay?”

“Fine, just tired,” Eugene smiles, and she definitely believes the second part of his reply. “Bed?” The question comes out fuzzy with quiet hope. It’s impossible to resist.

“Bed,” she agrees. And when he sighs in relief, sags slightly against her, she steps closer. Just in case.

* * *

Settling down for bed isn’t a complicated affair. He changes into something clean and soft (his old clothes, black and soaked with blood that doesn’t show up on the dark fabric, get cast into the laundry) and flinches the whole way, dreading each lift of his arms and hissing through the pain.

“Are you _sure_ you’re okay?” Rapunzel’s voice drifts past the screen, gentle but firm with concern, and he’s so close to folding. Nothing sounds better in that moment than crawling into her arms and opening his mouth and just _talking_ \- about how badly he hurts, about how weak he feels, about how disconnected his skin seems to be and about how shaken he is about not being able to protect himself from a simple beating - but his mouth stays shut. He hesitates before the mirror. He doesn’t say a word.

He locks eyes with his reflection - other than the exhaustion, he looks relatively put together. He looks composed; like nothing even happened.

He can’t tell if that’s a good or a bad thing.

“I’m okay,” he reassures her. The lie tastes like his own cold blood against his face. “It’s just late.”

He steps away from the basin and the mirror. He carefully doesn’t move his broken hand, doesn’t twist so his broken ribs grate. He looks everywhere but at his bloodied clothes and steps towards the bed. It’s so welcoming, plush and warm, and dropping onto it is the best experience he’s had tonight aside from landing eyes on Rapunzel.

She shuffles behind her screen, humming lightly and neatly setting aside her day dress. It’s soothing to watch her movements, track her silhouette with his eyes, and he melts into the blankets. The tension coiled around his spine relaxes. He takes a few shuddering, comforting breaths. This helps, but he needs…

Rapunzel steps out from the screen in a simple blue nightgown, bare feet whispering on the floor. She takes one look at him, gone limp against the bedding, eyes half-closed, and smiles. “Turn over.”

He doesn’t even consider questioning it. Eugene flips over so he’s facing out, gingerly moving and doing a remarkable job of not wincing too loudly. The sheets rustle behind him and he only waits for a second before she’s stretched along his back, resting curled on the pillows so that she can tuck his head under her chin and cup his face carefully with her palm. _This_ is what he needs. The feeling of her covering his back, sheltering his head and neck and treating him gently - a knot loosens in his chest. “Love you, sunshine,” he slurs, the exhaustion strong enough to override everything else, from the smallest aches to the dizzying shift of his chest.

“Love you too.” She sounds amused, fingers drifting from his face to stroke the back of his neck, and he almost slips into sleep. “Wait, Eugene-” Her fingers press lightly. He whimpers just barely, and she shushes him, muttering apologies. “Is this a bruise?”

He doesn’t know how to respond. She tugs at his collar, pulling his shirt away from his skin, and he tries to turn over to face her but that is a _fantastically_ bad idea because one broken rib does something it definitely shouldn’t, and he gasps. The amusement in her tone fades completely to urgency. “Don’t fall asleep on me,” she says, sitting up and patting his face. “Eugene? Eugene!”

“‘M up,” he groans. “Let me-”

Sitting up is also a fantastically bad idea.

Heat explodes along his entire side and every muscle he attempts to use to rise off the sheets. His chest locks up and he falls back again, the sound of his own breathing a million miles away, Rapunzel’s concerned face over him but her voice in the distance. “-Eugene, _please_ -”

Strong hands grip his shoulders, somehow avoiding the worst of the bruising, and she pulls him up with absolutely no effort on his part. Eugene lets her gather him into her arms, leaning most of his weight into her shoulder and just breathing, trying to still his movements. “Let’s get your shirt off you,” she soothes, and it’s for his benefit more than hers.

“Gotta…” he bites out a laugh, smile shifting into a frown when she eases his arms through the shirt and tugs it over his head. “Gotta buy me...dinner.”

“I think we’re well past that,” she responds, and the soft humor he can hear is magic for his frayed nerves. “Breathe slower, okay? Eugene, I need you to breathe nice and slow.”

She takes his broken hand in both of hers, fingers inspecting carefully, but the reminder of those injuries is enough to push him into a spiral. It’s like the shock hadn’t fully set in until he’d decided to relax - he can feel the anxiety twisting in his stomach, can feel his shoulders begin to tremble like he just can’t get _warm_. It worsens as he sits there, and - he remembers cruel voices, damp cobblestones, remembers the pain and _feels_ the pain, and then he’s shaking all over. “Rapunzel, I-”

One hand leaves his to brace the side of his neck, and her eyes are directly in front of his. “If you don’t calm down, you’ll make yourself sick.” Her worry almost hurts to watch, and he struggles to take in a deep breath. “There you go,” she hums. “Good; you’re doing so good for me, did you know that?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that. The question - it derails his thoughts and adjusts his focus, and with a start he _does_ know that he’s done well for her. He fights for another breath, a little weaker, but a breath nonetheless, and her grip against his neck squeezes for a half-second. The contact overwhelms in a good way. He tilts, testing his chest, before tipping forwards gently to bury his face in the space where her neck meets her shoulder.

She lets him fall, catching him and supporting him, and the hand on his neck slides to tangle in his hair. Eugene can feel her thumb stroking a pattern, repetitive and sweet, against the skin behind his ear. “We need to get you checked out,” Rapunzel sighs, and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Can you stand? Or should I get the doctor?”

The thought of her leaving him, not being here to guard his head and heart even for a few minutes, is unbearable. “I can stand,” Eugene says. He could, with her helping.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Just let me take care of you?”

“Yeah, sunshine.” And he twists to tuck his face against her again, blocking out the world except for the sweet smell of her soap and the warmth of her skin. “Of course.”


End file.
